With a bit of a dull head from the wine drinking and gala day celebrations I decided to pop in to see my neighbour. She is dying of cancer and there is nothing anyone can do. It’s now a matter of time.
Her daughter shows me in and there she is lay down on the sofa. We wake her softly and I help her as she sits up and tries to get comfortable. Her daughter leaves us whilst we chat about the weather, making small talk while she fully comes to.
It’s here in this room, where we sat on Christmas Day, my turkey on a low heat in the oven, champagne in hand, and spoke about the history of the house and its occupants past and present. Today I sit on the same sofa, this time no champagne in hand for obvious reasons; realising champagne will most probably never be consumed in this room again.
Ernestina is the name of my neighbour, my landlady and my friend. A woman in her mid 70’s, of traditional Italian stock and a woman that is well known and well respected in the area. I feel privileged to be here, to sit by her side while we talk about my weekend, cooking, Dylan and, of course, her illness. She is sad; telling me that all she ever wanted to do was watch her daughter get married. Knowing that will never happen now, tears prick my eyes. I look up and see tears are in her eyes too.
She is slow and finding it hard to breath, so I puff up the spare cushions and place them behind her back so she can breathe more easily. She takes off her slippers and shows me her feet; they are bloated and look sore. I bend down and start to rub her foot, hoping that my efforts may start to release the pressure. It doesn’t work. So I slip her feet back into her slippers and we talk for another 20 minutes. We laugh as she points and talks about her boobs shrinking and everything else growing.
Her daughter re-appears and I realise it’s time for me to go. I kiss her on both cheeks, the Italian way, and agree to see her again tomorrow to break up her day.
This, we all agree, will work.
I walk slowly back up the stairs and hover outside my front door. Making the visit wasn’t done to accomplish any act of kindness, it was done purely to be there for someone who would be there for me.
If I had a choice there would be nothing to write about today.
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